


second light

by mimosapudica



Series: shared looking [1]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 14:29:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18209552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimosapudica/pseuds/mimosapudica
Summary: “What does it feel like to be Connor McDavid right now?” he was asked.“I’m not even going to answer that. You know how I feel,” he said.-POST-RAW | McDavid 02.05.19Leon wonders what Connor’s thinking.





	second light

**Author's Note:**

> takes place sort of in january-february of the 18-19 season, though there’s nothing really date specific... i'm quite shy about the idea of posting fanfiction, but my 2019 resolution was to try to overthink stuff less… so i hope you like it. :) 
> 
> the title is from [Portrait of Fryderyk in Shifting Light by Richard Siken](http://asmallarchive.tumblr.com/post/134086630712/portrait-of-fryderyk-in-shifting-light-by-richard), a great poem i really recommend -
>
>> "“What can you know about a person? They shift  
> in the light. You can’t light up all sides at once. Add  
> a second light and you get a second darkness, it’s only  
> fair. ”"
> 
> and the description is from [this post game](https://www.nhl.com/oilers/video/post-raw--mcdavid-020519/t-281751750/c-65609403). 

 

Leon’s managed to wait out everyone to leave the practice rink for lunch; the only people around are the equipment guys and the coaches. It’s time with his thoughts that he doesn’t really know what to fill with. The quiet is nice, but it’s safe to say the atmosphere in the room could be better.

 

What’s there to think about, really? They’re losing, at the moment. More games than they’re winning. In the worst possible way, too; a streak of two or three losses, each feeling more hopeless and frustrating, then there’s a win, and they all think _yes, finally, okay, back on track,_ then the slide begins again. Then it’s three or four losses. The kind of record that makes wins feel less satisfying and losses more aggravating. Sucking the energy out of the roster with a handful of loser points to show for it.

 

At least if they were tanking, a win might be strangely celebratory, a moment of reprieve, but this is just gruelling. They show they have the capability to win big games — Klefbom will score a spectacular clutch goal, Koskinen makes some unbelievable save, Connor does something ridiculous and improbable on a breakaway. They showed they could do it, almost, in the actual playoffs. Then the slide begins again. The season slipping away, minute by minute.

 

It’s pathetic, really. It’s like everyone steps on the ice playing a different game entirely. It’s all lazy kid shit, the mistakes they’re making. Fanning on easy shots. Passing too high, too slow. Shots getting picked off when they shouldn’t be, goals aren’t saved when they should be. Hockey media loves to say that — this _shouldn’t_ happen, that _can’t_ happen. But it can, and it does, and it's all happening to the Oilers.

 

What’s going wrong? Everyone, Leon included, would love to know. The magic of professional sport is such that you can try your hardest every single day and still lose, but there’s only so long you can say those same sound-bites after a game. _We just need to be better. That kind of thing isn’t acceptable. We collapsed, we didn’t put enough pressure on them in the third, we need to break up the cycle. We just have to find a way to win._

 

 _Find a way to win_. It’s such an easy thing to say.

 

Of course, Connor gets the brunt of the disappointment. His resolve’s pretty unshakeable, because it has to be, but it doesn’t do much to dispel the simmering frustration in the locker room. They all make the effort not to bitch too excessively around him. They all see the shit he gets everyday, the constant stream of trash in the press — they don’t need to give him more reasons to be stressed.

 

It’s exhausting, though. It’s exhausting to even think about. Leon, in his most cynical moments, wishes the season would just fucking end.

 

“Leon?” Connor’s voice, out of nowhere, breaks the silence. Leon looks up, jolted out of his thoughts. Before he can say anything, Connor speaks again.

 

“Are you busy? Do you want to get coffee or something?” Connor asks. He’s leaning against the doorway, coat already on. He’s a little flushed, like he’d gone outside but thought better of it.

 

Briefly, Leon is startled; it’s rare that Connor doesn’t have some kind of media engagement after an off-day practice. Leon had thought he’d already left a while ago. He realises he’s taking his sweet time packing his equipment away, and picks it up a little.

 

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Leon says, zipping up his bag. “I mean, no, I’m not busy. Coffee sounds good.”

 

* * *

 

Leon drives them to a McDonald’s drive-through in relative silence and buys two large to-go cups of shitty coffee. It sounds like self-flagellation, but Leon just has low standards (hot and bitter are his only requirements) and Connor is not much of a coffee drinker, so he says it doesn’t matter. It’s companionably quiet, apart from Leon swearing to himself when someone cuts him off, and the _click-click-click-click_ of Connor sending someone a flurry of text messages.

 

It’s relaxing. Leon had gotten a little tense and agitated during practice, but driving around is methodical, simple. Consumes enough brain-power that he doesn’t think about much else. Connor doesn’t complain about them just hanging out in the car, either. Leon makes the excuse that it’s too cold to go out, but he gets the idea that Connor’s not in the mood to be seen at the moment, even if it is the middle of the day on a weekday.

 

Connor wouldn’t say that out loud, but Leon knows. All it takes is one belligerent fan and Connor’s mood sinks like a brick. Leon would rather not take the risk.

 

Leon pulls into some suburban park, after muddling around side-streets for a while. The parking area is surprisingly not empty of cars, but Leon can’t see anyone around, so it’s probably about as private as it gets. He pulls up next to a broken streetlight, turns the ignition off, and leaves the heat on.

 

“So, uh. What’s up?” Leon asks, after a while. He fidgets with the lid of his coffee cup. “How are you doing?”

 

“Good, fine.” Connor says, and it’s so clipped and false-sounding that Leon raises his eyebrows without even thinking about it. He gives Connor a deeply sceptical look. Connor meets his eyes for a second, then looks down. “Well, I mean. I’ve probably been better.” He puts his phone in his pocket and picks up his coffee from the cup-holder.

 

Leon’s surprised by how strange it feels to be just — hanging out. He’s never been one for small talk; he was under the impression Connor appreciated that about him.

 

“Did you want to talk about it?” Leon asks, tentatively. He’s careful with his tone. He doesn’t want to imply he _wouldn’t_ be there for Connor if he did want to have some kind of feelings talk, but he’s never wanted to before.

 

“ _No,_ ” Connor’s so decisive about it that he surprises both of them, and softens his voice. “No, I, uh, I mean… well. You know how it is. Don’t you? I mean, we — it’s not, like, new.”

 

“That we’re losing, or that you’re being harassed about it?”

 

“Both, I guess.” Connor says on a sigh.

 

Leon shrugs. “That’s the NHL, I suppose. The media probably just wants to see you miserable.” he says. It’s supposed to be a joke, but it’s far from his best.

 

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Connor takes a sip, then makes a sound like a scoff. “Oh, it’s that — what’s that German word? _Schadenfreude_?” His voice is surprisingly hostile, different than he’s ever sounded in the locker room. His German pronunciation is also shockingly awful. Leon is surprised by how fond that makes him feel.

 

“I guess everyone just wants to know how you feel about it.” Leon says, tactful.

 

“Don’t you think that’s, like, kind of insane? Like — what am I supposed to say when people ask me that?” Connor says, both hands cupped around his coffee. “It’s like, what do you want to hear? It feels like shit, thanks for asking. Isn’t it obvious? It sucks. Losing all the time sucks. I would rather be winning. Do they want me to say I’m crying myself to sleep about it, or what?”

 

“Are you?” Leon says, quite delicately, looking over at him for a second. “Sad?”

 

Connor hates being interrogated about his emotions at the best of times. Leon can’t help it, though; he wants to know, just like everyone else, and what better way to know than to ask?

 

“ _Sad_?” Connor is incredulous. He doesn’t look at Leon, but he tilts his head back, his head hitting the carseat with a thunk. “No. No, I’m not sad. I’m frustrated.” He shakes his head, almost in disbelief. “Fuckin’ — I’m angry, even.”

 

Leon doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have anything to add.

 

“God, like… ugh, I don’t know. All I can do is keep playing and doing my best and saying the right stuff, right? That’s all I — all _we_ can do. What possible use is being sad?” Connor says. He seems to sag against the carseat, sighing a little, and when he speaks again it’s quiet. “I’m already doing everything I can.”

 

“You’re doing more than enough.” Leon says, kind of placidly, and Connor’s lip curls in a wry little smile.

 

“Clearly _not_ , considering.” Connor’s tone almost sounds as if he’s joking. As if he’s aware of how patently ridiculous it sounds, as if Connor McDavid could possibly not be doing enough.

 

What more could he possibly do? Get 200 points?

 

Leon can tell that Connor actually believes that, although just for a moment. Connor’s not very deceptive. It is an uncharacteristically defeatist thought.

 

“I don’t want to talk about this.” Connor says, decisively, after a brief silence of Leon trying to figure out what he wants to say.

 

That’s that, then. Leon won’t push him — there’s no use. Connor can be very stubborn. He can change moods fast, though, and it’s like a light turns on inside him, all of the tense and restrained emotion of the previous conversation gone.

 

“You know, this parking lot isn’t really doing much for me, aesthetics-wise.” he says.

 

“Want to maybe go for a drive around, then?” Leon offers. “Traffic won’t be too bad at this time of day.” It’s an easy enough suggestion — Connor likes to “go out” in the simplest possible definition of the word, and since going for a walk is off, this is the next best thing.

 

“That sounds good.” Connor says, getting his phone out to check the time. “Maybe we should turn the heat down, though. I don’t want to waste all your gas.”

 

Leon shrugs, starting the car. “It’s either that or you get frostbite and both your arms fall off, and Hitchcock really will go crazy if that happens.”

 

Despite that not being a particularly good joke, Connor laughs. Connor has a great laugh, bright and sunny, and Leon is warmed by it.

 

* * *

 

They play the Bruins the next night and, of course, it goes terribly.

 

Nuge scores in the first period. Nothing good happens for them in the second. Leon takes a delay of game penalty late in the third for shooting the puck over the glass and grinds his teeth in the box for two minutes, watching Pastrnak embarrass their abysmal penalty kill.

 

Leon blocked a hard shot in the first, too, and being off his feet lets him feel the rapidly-forming bruise on his calf from it really start to give him trouble. He tries not to make a big deal of it, and adrenaline is a good enough distraction. He jogs his knee, pops his mouthguard on and off, fidgets with his gloves.

 

They’re already down 5-1, and Leon has a firm hold on his stick with both hands, twisting it back and forth. He thinks, briefly, that he could break it, smash it against the boards. Really make a scene. But what good would that do? It’d hardly fire up the team. If anything, it’d be a tantrum; a fitting way to cap off an embarrassing fifth loss in a row. Leon looks at the bench and can see Rattie looking like he wants to set the ref on fire with his eyes, Brodziak saying something rapidly to Benning who seems to only half be listening.

 

Leon wonders what Connor’s thinking. Most people in the arena are wondering too, probably.

 

Connor’s out for the second half of the penalty kill, and Leon watches him worrying at his lip. He had caught a high stick in the second period, and while he had quickly been stitched up, he keeps spitting blood on the ice. This is nothing unusual, Leon had thought, watching the doctor stitch him up. Something similar had happened the other day against the Coyotes; Connor had taken a clip to the side of the head and was holding a rag to his temple in between shifts. This happens all the time, and it’d be funny if it weren’t so infuriating.

 

They all watch it happen, is the thing. Connor pays the price for being a superstar in slashes and elbows and ugly hits, and because he doesn’t want to complain, he just takes it. He takes it and he takes it, lest he develop the reputation for being a bitch or a crybaby or whatever. Leon can’t stand it — of course he can’t. None of them can. But Leon takes enough extremely stupid penalties as it is, and he’s not about to take more just for getting into fights he can’t win.

 

Privately, Leon nurtures quite the embarrassing fantasy about dropping his gloves and destroying someone for taking another cheap run at Connor, and all the theatrics that go with it; skating victorious to the box, helmet off, really basking in it. Roger’s Place would probably explode. He’s painfully aware that the much more likely possibility is that he gets dropped in two pathetic seconds, embarrasses the Oilers, and, more importantly, embarrasses Connor.

 

Leon knows he’s getting unreasonably upset about it. It’s part of the game, like it’s always been. Not every penalty can be called, otherwise the game would simply be unplayable. It’s fundamental hockey logic. He also knows that Connor’s not alone — Nuge gets his fair share of cheap shots, Kassian and Nurse get muscled around plenty. They’re not the only ones getting plastered, either; they’re certainly not paying Lucic to rack up points, it looks like. But knowing it’s part of the game doesn’t make it any less primally aggravating; seeing a teammate (someone who you care about, someone who it’s your responsibility to look after) get hurt in front of you, and not being able to do anything about it.

 

Once, when he was a rookie, Leon had his head slammed into the boards so unexpectedly he actually understood the meaning of “seeing stars”. He remembers seeing his teammates amble past. He remembers the game going on. As it always does, and as it always will. It always feels viscerally unfair in the moment.

 

Unbelievably, the Bruins don’t score on the power play. Leon watches Nurse dump the puck wide as the clock winds down on his penalty and without thinking, he comes flying out of the box, reinvigorated. He manages to corral the puck while he checks to see who’s close behind him (Heinen, looks like) and who’s in front of him (nobody but Halak, already moving into position to block Leon’s shot). He sees a flash of orange out of the corner of his eye and of course it’s Connor, haring up to meet him in his long, sloping strides, and it’s just the easiest thing in the world to pass to him.

 

What else does Connor do but score, then; neatly chips the puck right over Halak’s blocker, a goal so tidy and simple it makes Halak look silly. As if the puck simply has nowhere else to go but that impossible gap. Of course, they’re still losing. Down 5-2 with six minutes left, the chances of them winning this game are slim to none. They’ve been outshot and outworked consistently in this game. God knows there’s not actually much to be happy about.

 

But Leon is happy. The simple delight of Connor having scored a goal is hard to deny. Connor skates up and drapes his arm over Leon’s shoulders, bumping their helmets together with an exhausted little smile on his face. He doesn’t say anything — he can barely catch his breath — but Leon knows what he would be saying, and he smiles. It was a long shift for him.

 

This is Connor’s second point of the night — he had the only assist on Nuge’s goal in the first. At least he’s still in the Art Ross race, even if everything else is going miserably for the Oilers. At least they can manage this. Leon supposes they kind of owe it to him, at this point. Leon watches the back of Connor’s head as they skate to the bench.

 

* * *

 

“Coffee?” Connor asks, his voice light. He's tidied up his things fast; he’s always ready to move ahead. “A joyride? I’ll drive.”

 

“Are you sure?” Leon says. “It’s kind of late.” They have an 8am charter flight tomorrow, and while that’s not particularly early, it’s a long one — down to New York — and depriving themselves of rest is only going to make the flight miserable.

 

“Ah, I won’t be sleeping anyway,” Connor says, with a wave of his hand. “You know that.”

 

Leon does know that. Connor rarely knocks out like a normal person after games, particularly bad ones. In fact, he does almost anything _but_. Leon will wake up to a text from Connor, occasionally, from a ridiculous hour. Sometimes it’s hockey-related, sometimes it isn’t; they’ve ranged from " _12:36am: Did u see Nursey get stuck in the penalty box doors when he was trying to get in lol”_ to “ _2:42am: Got Duolingo. Gute nacht !!_ ”.

 

“Yeah,” Leon says. “Fair enough. It’ll be cold, though.”

 

Connor shrugs. “Keep your coat on, then.”

 

They carpooled to the rink, so Leon climbs in his own passenger seat. He’s fine with letting Connor drive, though. Connor prefers driving; naturally, he’s quite the neurotic driver. However, Leon concedes driving responsibilities mainly because the calf he took a shot in is aching quite insistently now. It’s not a problem. He just knows that if he’s careful about how much he uses this leg, he could still probably be fine for the Rangers game on Saturday.

 

Connor always tells him that it’s a really dumb thing to think, but sometimes injuries really are only as bad as you let them be.

 

Connor asks him what he feels like drinking, and Leon says he doesn’t mind. He did pick last time, after all, so Connor buys them hot chocolate. Connor knows Edmonton a lot better than Leon does, so he’s a little less aimless when he drives them around for a while, but he still ends up pulling into the empty carpark of — a golf course? Maybe it’s a park, it’s too dark to see — and parking under a flickering yellow streetlight.

 

It’s nice. Kind of peaceful. It feels transitory, like a little hiding place, in between everywhere else. They could be anywhere, in any city.

 

“So,” Leon says, mildly. “That could’ve been worse.”

 

“Hardly,” Connor replies. Leon doesn’t argue, because he’s right — the only way the game could’ve gone worse would’ve been if either someone had gotten seriously injured or Boston had shut them out.

 

Objectively, they didn’t even deserve the score they got. Most of the game was lazy and disorganised and Boston, rightfully, laid into them. The shot totals ended up being something ridiculous and embarrassing — Boston had forty-something while they were barely in the twenties — and it was Koskinen standing on his head that kept it from being a complete blowout.

 

It was a bad game. Some of the losses have been good games, as _good_ as a loss can be; an overtime fought tooth and nail, or dragged kicking and screaming to a shootout. But this was a bad game, one they deserved to lose. They weren’t good enough.

 

He can still hear himself saying it, in his post-game. _We collapsed. We just collapsed._

 

He doubts the media response will be positive. The insistent rumbling growing in the more passionate circles of Edmonton sports journalism — and Leon reads it, of course, as much as he shouldn’t — is that Connor should just demand a trade. He’s wasting his prime, stewing in Edmonton with overpaid centres and AHL wingers. He could be breaking records. He’s the greatest player since Crosby, and Crosby won his first cup at 21, and — so on and so on.

 

Leon’s humble opinion is that it would never happen. For one thing, Edmonton may literally crucify Connor, for all they claim to love him. Connor would also hate all the media attention a debacle like that would generate — and there’d be a lot of it. An unbelievable amount. But really, at his core, Connor’s far too proud to do something like leave. He wouldn’t just give up. He wouldn’t do something like that.

 

 _Or — or maybe he would_ , Leon thinks, suddenly. Maybe he would. It feels almost traitorous to think. Leon looks at Connor in the dark of the car, just briefly. The light from the streetlamp is dim at best, and it outlines only the side of Connor’s face.

 

Leon wonders what Connor’s after, wanting to hang out like this. Every time he thinks he’s getting close to Connor — because there have been moments, here and there, where he’s felt as if Connor is letting him in just a little bit — Connor locks up, pushes him away. He’ll freeze up, laugh, change the subject, and that’ll be that, and everything will be a little off-kilter for a while.

 

Leon doesn’t know why it happens. It's not as if he's trying to be invasive. He assumes it’s something to do with his own emotional inexperience, maybe. He's never been a great feelings guy. God knows Leon’s never known anyone quite like Connor before.

 

“How’s your leg feeling now?” Connor asks, breaking the silence. He looks at Leon, who quickly looks away. 

 

“Uh, better,” Leon says. “I think the cold might be making it feel worse than it is. It’ll feel better once I get some sleep.” He fiddles with the lid of the cup. The hot chocolate Connor ordered is far too sweet for Leon’s taste, so he’s mostly using the cup as a hand-warmer.

 

“Is that your way of saying you want to go home without hurting my feelings?”

 

Leon smiles. “Surely not. What about you? How are you doing?”

 

“How d’you think?” Connor says, joke-sarcastic.

 

“I don’t know, Connor.” Leon replies. “I never know what you’re thinking.” He doesn’t mean for it to sound so serious, but Connor stops smiling.

 

“Sorry.” Connor says, after a heavy pause. He tucks his cup back in the cup-holder.

 

“For what?”

 

“For being — I don’t know. Like this.” He makes a vague gesture at himself, with a kind of admonished look.

 

“What?” Leon says, again. “There’s nothing wrong with how you are.” He makes his voice maybe a little firmer than it needs to be.

 

“I know that I’m, like — I don’t know, difficult, in that way.” Connor says, then shakes his head, like he wants a sentence do-over. “I don’t _mean_ to be, you know, hard to keep up with. For you. I mean… it’s not very good for a captain to be like that to people. Distant or… or whatever.”

 

“Connor, oh my God,” Leon says, “you don’t have to be a captain all the time. You’re allowed to just be a person with boundaries. I didn’t mean to—”

 

“I _know_ , I know, but, like. I don’t want to be hard to feel close to.” Connor says, insistent. “You know? I mean, press stuff is one thing, but I don’t want to make you feel like I’m keeping you away.”

 

Leon shrugs, baffled. “Honestly, Connor, I don’t mind if you do. Keep me as far away as you like. That’s your call. You don’t owe me shit, you know. You don’t owe anyone anything.” He pauses. It takes a long silence to figure out what he wants to say next. He doesn’t want to say the wrong thing, and make Connor lock up again.

 

“Sometimes I think it’d be nice to know what’s going on in your head. Just to know where we stand. That’s all. You don’t have to just bottle things up for the sake of — I don’t know, leadership, or something. I mean, you said it yourself. Everyone wants to know what Connor McDavid’s thinking.”

 

Connor gives a bare little smile at that. He ducks his head, looks at his hands. “Well, what if I want to know what Leon Draisaitl’s thinking?” he says, after a little silence.

 

Leon laughs. It’s a little strained, but it is genuine, and it makes Connor smile properly. Leon expected nothing less. Connor managed to tactfully avoid the request, diffuse the tension, and shift the focus off of him all at once. He’s getting too good at public relations.

 

He indulges him, though. “Oh, well, let’s see —  _it’s fucking cold in this car_ , _this hot chocolate tastes like garbage, I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open_ …”

 

“Wow, nevermind,” Connor snickers. “You’re way too whiny for me.”

 

“Breaking news, Connor McDavid found being extremely un-Canadian-ly rude to defenceless teammate.”

 

“Oh, and defenceless is right.” Connor whistles. “Your backcheck and I need to have a serious talk.”

 

“What the fuck, don’t do captain shit _now_ ,” Leon says, affronted. “Jesus, I’d rather go back to talking about our feelings.”

 

“Actually, uh, I’ve locked you in this car with the promise of hot beverages so we can have a performance review,” Connor says, mock-serious. “This was all part of my plan to save the season.”

 

“And people said you were too young to be captain,” Leon says, giving him a friendly shove in the shoulder.  

 

Connor laughs, head back. It’s nice to see Connor smile so much, after the night they’ve had, and Leon lets himself enjoy it.

 

Connor looks at Leon. He looks like he’s going to say something else, but the strangest thing happens — Connor surges forward, and presses his lips to the side of Leon’s, in an imprecise little kiss.

 

It takes Leon a second to realise that Connor is actually kissing him and he’s not imagining it, and by the time he has, Connor has already pulled away. It was innocent, close-lipped, almost like a friendly kiss hello, but Connor looks about as scandalised as if he’d shoved his tongue down Leon’s throat.

 

“I—I’m sorry,” Connor says, very quietly, “I—” and before he can start massively overthinking it, Leon leans across and kisses him properly, stabilising himself with a hand firm on where Connor’s shoulder meets his neck.

 

Connor freezes for half a second, then softens completely. Thank God. He cradles Leon’s wrist with one hand and fists the other in the fabric of Leon’s shirt. Connor is surprisingly honest about how much he wants to be kissed, lets his mouth fall open and leans in for it unashamed, which charms Leon inordinately.

 

The first kiss had been and gone too fast for Leon to really think about it, but now he has time, he considers. It doesn’t feel as strange as it maybe should. He knows so much of this already, is the crazy thing — he knows how Connor’s breath feels so close to his own, how it feels to have Connor tug on his collar; he knows the shape of Connor’s teeth, and where the line of his lip is broken by an old scar. He considers how the actual press of lips together almost feels like some kind of inevitability.  

 

It’s surprisingly uncomplicated. Leon is glad that he can do something for Connor, for once.

 

“Is that okay?” Leon asks when he pulls away, and Connor huffs a breathy laugh, nudges Leon’s cheek with his nose. His nose is cold, but his face is warm. Leon would put money on the fact he’s red all up to the back of his ears.

 

“Uh, obviously,” Connor replies.

 

Leon can feel Connor smiling against his mouth, a wonderful feeling, and allows himself to kiss him again. It’s easy to kiss Connor; Leon gets a little bold. He can taste the coppery brightness of the split in Connor’s lip from earlier. When he swipes his tongue across the split, Connor flinches, but he doesn’t pull away; a dizzying turn of events.

 

 _That’s Connor’s tongue in Leon’s mouth_. Leon can’t believe any fucking part of it.

 

The position is kind of strange — he’s very much at risk of being stabbed in the ribcage by the gearstick, and he can’t really figure out where to put his other hand to balance himself. It’s hard to be annoyed by it, though. He never thought he’d ever see Connor completely relaxed, let alone — whatever this is. Leon curls his hand around the back of Connor’s neck, tentatively, tucking his thumb in the hollow between Connor’s jawbone and the shell of his ear; a move he remembers a girl he dated once really liking. There was significantly less beard hair there the last time he did it, however.

 

Connor likes it, if the way he curls into Leon is any indication.

 

Leon doesn’t know quite what to think of the fact he’s using his — his girl-moves on Connor, of all people. On a guy at all, actually, though there surely can’t be _that_ much difference. Kissing is broadly the same across the board, isn’t it?

 

Whatever he’s doing seems to be making Connor happy, at least. He’s bunching and unbunching his hands in the front of Leon’s shirt, kind of restless, like he’s scared to feel Leon’s actual body. He follows Leon every time he tilts his head, though, chasing the contact. The effect is almost needy, as if he wants to just touch, hold, but can’t let himself do it.

 

Leon finds himself wanting to make the decision for him. Why does this have to be hard? It could be so easy. For a second, he wishes they were somewhere slightly more conducive to this, where he could give Connor what he seems to want. A hotel room, either of their apartments, _somewhere_ — anywhere that isn’t the passenger’s seat of a car that’s parked in public. He realises that he is essentially wishing that he was hooking up with Connor for real, though, and that is — that is a thought for another time.

 

Connor’s the first to pull away, after a while, but he ducks his head shyly to rest on Leon’s shoulder. Like he doesn’t want to stop being close yet. It makes Leon’s head swim.

 

“Thanks,” Connor mumbles, and Leon gives him a friendly pat on the back of the neck.

 

“No problem,” Leon says, as flippant as he can manage it. It’s hard to keep his voice level. Leon doesn’t say what he’s thinking, which is — _Connor, are you lonely?_

 

“It’s getting late,” Connor says, “maybe time to head back, d’you think?”

 

“Yeah, I think so.”

 

That being said, neither of them moves for a little while. Connor’s hands are still clutching the hem of Leon’s shirt, and he’s resting his forehead on the dip of his collarbone. Leon still has his hand on the back of Connor’s neck. It could almost be just a friendly back pat. Leon knows Connor’s still overthinking something, so he tries to be conciliatory.

 

“We don’t have to talk about this.” Leon speaks very quietly. “If you’re worried about that.”

 

Connor makes a non-committal noise, so Leon doesn’t say anything else. He wants to, though — he wants to tell Connor that he’d kiss him again, if that’s what he’d like, or hold him, or do anything that he wants, really. It’s hard not to want to make Connor happy.

 

“I’m sorry,” Connor says, finally. “For — for being weird. I know this is like… I don’t know. Sorry.”

 

“Don’t be sorry. I know how it is.”

 

“You don’t, but.” Connor’s voice sounds like he’s smiling. He lets go of Leon’s shirt and picks his head up, and Leon wishes it wasn’t so dark, so he could see Connor’s expression a little better. “Thank you, anyway. I kind of sprung that on you out of nowhere.” He moves back into his seat, and feels so far away as he turns the key in the ignition.

 

Leon keeps looking at Connor, although he’s looking away. “It’s no problem. Really. I’m glad to, um, help. If that’s what you need.”

 

“Where the hell are we?” Connor says, and Leon supposes that’s the end of that. He opens Google Maps on his phone, and winces at the brightness.

 

“When you drive out of here, through that back exit, turn left,” Leon says, starting them on their journey home.

 

* * *

 

Before they get out when they pull up in front of Connor’s place, Connor tugs Leon in by his shirtsleeve to kiss him again. Leon’s only caught a little off guard by it; Connor kept sneaking little glances at him on the way back, while Leon was looking at his phone. It was strange to feel Connor looking at him so intensely, that pins-and-needles of being watched.

 

The kiss is only brief. It feels nice, though — confident, easy, almost domestic. He could get used to it, even if it was just only this, only a little peck before parting ways. Leon scolds himself for thinking so indulgently.

 

Leon does take the chance to run his fingers through Connor’s hair, though, where it’s newly short at the back. You do only live once. It’s a risky move, but it pays off —  he swears he can hear Connor make a pleased little hum. Leon faces the inconvenient truth that he doesn’t want to stop, that he could do this for a long time. The embarrassment in wanting it so much. The car feels empty when Connor pulls away and gets out.

 

He hears the sound of Connor taking his bag out of the trunk, and inelegantly climbs across to sit in the driver’s seat and shift the mirror.

 

“Night,” Connor says, very casual. He fidgets for his keys. “Thanks for the ride.”

 

“Sure,” Leon replies. He supposes they’re just not going to say anything about it. “See you.”

 

“Let me know if your leg gets any worse, eh?”

  
“It’ll be fine.”

 

Connor’s about to turn inside — his key just in the lock, even —  when Leon is suddenly possessed with the fact that this will mean the night is over. Another part of the season to be forgotten. He’s usually resigned to Connor pushing him away, but this time, he feels like he’s in too deep, that he’ll get lost without knowing where they stand now. He wants it too much. He doesn’t want the night to be over yet; he wants to know if Connor feels this strange, sensitive thing, too.

 

Hell, he wants to know if Connor feels anything at all. Leon’s gone for the closest warm body after a miserable game before. He’d understand if Connor was just — venting frustration.

 

He’d understand. He probably wouldn’t be very happy about it.

 

But it’d be better than nothing, Leon thinks. He doesn’t mind being the warm body if it meant Connor would do that again.

 

“Hey — Connor?” Leon says, despite himself, leaning out of the driver’s seat window. _Say something,_ his brain says. _Say something. He started all this, he has to know. Say something. This won’t ever happen again if you don’t. Tell him._

 

Tell him _what?_ What the hell is he supposed to say?

 

“What? Did I leave something in your car?” Connor says, turning back and patting his pockets. “I’m pretty sure I got everything.”

 

It’s so much harder to say anything in the light.

 

“No, I just wanted to say, uh.” Every doubt Leon has suffocates him, and there’s a brief silence, and Connor stares at him, and Leon’s mind says _I like you, I want you, come home with me, I’ll take care of you, I want to, Connor, please let me, whatever you want, I_ — and he can’t, he can’t say anything at all, he says the first thing he thinks of.

 

“I—I kind of miss your long hair. You should grow it out again.”

 

Connor blinks, then laughs. “Goodnight, Leon. See you tomorrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> ive never posted here before, so please be kind to me if ive messed up... i'm not really sure how to tag things correctly. also if it isnt obvious the bruins game in this is fake lol.


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